


my ghost (where'd you go?)

by orphan_account



Series: Soulmate (Colors) AU [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, it would probably help to read that first to understand the soulmate verse at play here!, sequel to my soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to my Soulmate AU, "now i'm covered in the colors (torn apart at seams)" </p><p>Jemma and Fitz have been together for a little over a year, living together in a beautiful apartment. She thinks this is it; she's found her soulmate and it's all downhill from here. </p><p>But maybe finding your soulmate is the easy part. Maybe keeping them is what's really hard. </p><p>Based loosely on "Ghost" by Halsey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my ghost (where'd you go?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amazingjemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingjemma/gifts).



> I've gotta level with you, guys. This one is kind of a shit show. 
> 
> I'll admit it; Fitz and Jemma feel pretty OOC here, but I hope that it's still an enjoyable story regardless! I would recommend reading the first part in the series before reading this one, otherwise this might be a bit hard to follow.

_[Green]._

_I’m searching for something that I can’t reach_

 

They’ve been together for just over a year when it happens. She wakes up and rolls over, seeking out Fitz’s warmth. He’s nowhere to be found, and more importantly, neither is the color of their duvet. Jemma knows that it’s a lovely shade of sage green that she’d picked out at painstakingly to match dusky blue sheets. The two colors combined reminded both herself and Fitz of the ocean, but now, the duvet is a muted shade of grey.

 

Gasping, she sits up and wildly looks around the room. Her skin is still a creamy white, her freckles little dots of caramel on her skin. Her shirt is pink, the sheets are still blue, and her hair is decidedly brown.

 

Regardless, losing one color—even if it does appear to be just _one_ —terrifies her. With a chill in her bones, she slips out of bed and puts on her dressing gown, rushing out into the living room in search of Fitz.

 

“Fitz?” she calls. “Fitz, are you home?”

 

She receives no response, and immediately moves to the refrigerator. She’s grown accustomed to him wandering off, lost in his thoughts or itching to draw a certain scene. As usual, she finds a scrawled note, jammed beneath a magnet.

 

_Gone out. Back later._

The note crumbles in her hand and she feels tears prick at the back of her eyes. In recent weeks, he’s grown more and more distant, and it’s never been more clear to her than when it’s written down tersely in black ink on a crumbled sheet of paper.

 

She looks around their flat, running her hands through her hair in frustration. They’d moved in two months ago, right around their anniversary. Pictures of them, as well as photos of their families and their friends, hang on the walls. She passes a photo of herself and Fitz on the pier, smiling widely with ice cream in their hands. Skye had taken it on a sunny Saturday afternoon, a particularly pleasant double date.

 

Swallowing hard, she grabs her laptop off of the couch and places it on the breakfast bar. Jemma clicks on the kettle and busies herself with a cup of Earl Grey, attempting to squelch her own panic. She settles onto a stool and opens her computer, doing a quick search.

 

**soulmate color loss**

She scans the links that appear, heart slowly sinking in her chest. Testimonials written by people who had once had soulmates, who had once seen color, and somehow lost it. She clicks on one and begins reading it to herself, lips moving as she speaks softly in the quiet of her apartment. Jemma’s mug of tea sits forgotten, cradled by her palm.

 

“The doctor told us it was something called soul death,” she reads. She can’t hold back her snort of derision at the term. “My wife had experienced serious trauma before we’d met, and evidently that injury had not fully healed. As a result, she was losing the parts of her soul that connected her to me to begin with.”

 

Jemma’s hands begin to shake and she pushes away from the breakfast bar to pace, still in her robe and pajamas. She shuts her eyes, taking the calming breaths that she teaches to her patients.

 

“There’s no way,” she murmurs to herself. “That’s not possible. Fitz is just fine, and so are you. It’s just…I just need to go get my eyes checked. It’s all going to be just fine.”

 

The front door creaks open and she darts back to slam her laptop shut just as Fitz appears in the living room. He unzips his jacket and smiles weakly at her.

 

“Good morning,” he greets. “Did you just get up?”

 

She shakes her head, mouth going dry as she struggles to gather her thoughts. “No, I’ve been up for a bit. Just having a lazy morning I suppose.”

 

“Sorry I missed it,” he says, dropping a distracted kiss to her forehead. “Have you eaten?”

 

She shakes her head, but his back is already to her. “No, not yet. What have you been up to?”

 

The lines of his shoulders seem to tighten and he pauses in his search through the cabinet. “Just went for a walk.”

 

The words are clumsy and sees right through them. He’s lying to her and she’s not sure why. Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she makes her way toward their bedroom for her phone without another word. Maybe Bobbi can help her figure this out.

 

_[Orange]._

_You say that you're no good for me_

_Cause I'm always tugging at your sleeve_

_And I swear I hate you when you leave_

_But I like it anyway_

Skye watches her carefully over the dim lighting of the bar.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Doc?”

 

Jemma musters up a small smile and nods. “Yes, I’m quite sure, Skye.”

 

“Is he okay?” Skye asks again, nodding toward Fitz. He stands at the bar, hands shoved in his pockets as he talks with Trip. A hat is pulled low over his ears, and he looks all the world that he would rather be anywhere else than out with his friends.

 

Jemma sucks in a sharp breath and turns her face away from Skye. “I wish I could tell you.”

 

Skye frowns, reaching to grab for Jemma’s hand on top of the sticky table. “Is everything alright between you two? I know that technically I was his friend first, but if he did something to hurt you I swear I’ll kick his ass.”

 

Jemma laughs dryly and takes a long sip of her drink, shaking her head. “He’s been acting strangely for a few weeks now. He disappears for hours on end, is obviously lying to me about what he’s doing—maybe he’s cheating on me.”

 

Skye splutters, shaking her head vehemently. “No way. No fucking way. I’ve known Fitz for a long time now and he’s _crazy_ about you.”

 

Jemma shrugs sadly, playing with the cocktail straw in her drink. “At some point he was. Now I’m not so sure.”

 

Skye eyes her sympathetically. “Have you tried talking to him about any of this?”

 

Jemma snorts. “I tried once, but he said I was trying to ‘put him back on the therapy couch.’ It’s a little hard, dating a former client.”

 

“That was ages ago!” Skye protests. “Maybe try again? I’m sure that whatever’s going on has nothing to do with you.”

 

Jemma makes a small noise of agreement and lets her eyes wander back over to her boyfriend. He’s turned his face away from Trip completely, leaving the other man standing awkwardly while they wait for their drinks. She bites her lip and then makes a decision.

 

“Skye, can I ask you something?”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Have you ever…lost a color?”

 

Skye furrows her brow in concern. “Holy shit, Jemma, is that happening to you?”

 

This will be the first time she’s told anyone, and it bursts out of her with the strength of a sob. “Yes. It’s—green and orange, they’re both gone.”

 

Skye gapes at her, turning her head to look at Fitz just as he grows agitating, pushing himself away from the bar. He stalks over to the table and Jemma collects herself just in time.

 

“I’m going to head home,” he says rather tersely. “You stay here, though, have some fun.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Jemma offers, reaching over to grab her purse.

 

“No, really, stay,” he insists. She freezes, feeling rather foolish, and he kisses her quickly. His mouth feels dry and alien on hers, and she watches him leave with an increasingly heavy heart.

 

“Follow him,” Skye suggests. “He’s acting like—like some weird pod version of himself.”

 

Jemma doesn’t really want to follow him, but she also doesn’t really want to stay, so she gets up and gathers her things, dashing out onto the sidewalk.

 

“Fitz! Wait!”

 

He turns around, looking agitated. “Jemma. I told you to stay.”

 

“I didn’t want to,” she attempts to smile. “I wanted to spend time with you.”

 

She grabs at his sleeve in an effort to hold his hand and he wrenches himself away from her. She stumbles backward a step and he freezes, hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“Jemma…”

 

“Fitz, what the hell is going on?” she finally demands, unable to keep the tears from her voice or her eyes.

 

Something in his expression shifts when he sees that she’s crying. He looks devastated by it and it’s more emotion in him than she’s seen in weeks.

 

“Jemma, I’m sorry.”

 

Gathering all of her strength, she squares her shoulders and faces this head on. “Are you cheating on me?”

 

“What?” he breathes. “Why would you—why would you even think that?”

 

“Because you’re always disappearing!” Jemma shouts. This has been pent up inside of her for too long now and it’s like a runaway train that she can’t stop. “And you’re lying to me about where you’re going and I don’t know what else could be going on!”

 

“I’m not cheating on you,” he insists, eyes steely. “I would _never_ do that to you.”

 

“Then why are you always leaving?” she whimpers. She hates herself for her weakness but she can’t help it, angrily batting her tears off of her cheeks.

 

A muscle twitches in his jaw, hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’m not…I’m not good for you anymore, Jemma. Look at what I’m doing to you.”

 

“What?” she gasps. “Are you breaking up with me?”

 

“No!” he bursts out. Then he covers his face with both hands, breathing ragged. When he finally puts them back down, her entire body is trembling and he looks near tears himself. “Maybe. I don’t…I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t _know?!”_ she explodes. “Fitz, this is mad! Just _talk_ to me, tell me what’s going on—“

 

“That’s all you ever want to do!” he shouts. “You always…always…wanna talk things out, as if everything can be solved by just sitting in some office and _talking!”_

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” she cries. “Fitz, what am I supposed to do here?”

 

“I don’t know,” he bites out. “Look, I’m…I’m gonna crash at a…a friend’s house, okay? I’m really sorry but I can’t do this.”

 

Her stomach drops to the floor and she watches him walk away from her.

 

“I hate you right now,” she says to his retreating form. She’s not sure if he hears her. She turns around and walks back into the bar, collapsing into Skye’s arms.

 

_[Purple]._

_My ghost_

_Where'd you go?_

_I can't find you in the body sleeping next to me_

He lets himself in late at night three days later, stripping out of his clothes and crawling into bed beside her. She wakes blearily, scooting as far away from him on the mattress as she can.

 

“Jemma, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, fingers reaching for her beneath the sheets. “I didn’t mean it.”

 

She rolls over to look at him in the dark. “Do you still have all your colors?”

 

He stiffens. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I can’t see green, or orange, or purple anymore,” she admits to him, voice hoarse as she blinks the sleep out of her eyes.

 

“I…Jemma, I…” he starts, but he can’t finish.

 

“Do you still see them?”

 

“No,” he croaks. “What…what’s happening to us?”

 

“What’s happening to _you?”_ she asks. “There’s one possible explanation but it doesn’t seem…it can’t be right.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s called soul death,” she explains, face pressed against the pillow. She struggles to keep herself from crying, yet again. She’s done entirely too much of that in the last few days and she’s sick and tired of it.

 

“Soul death,” he repeats, trying the words out on his tongue. She nods against the pillowcase and explains further.

 

“I read an article about a man who lost the colors because his wife, she’d been through some serious traumas and overtime, it started to alter her brain chemistry. Enough that the soul, or whatever part of the brain we call the soul, couldn’t connect with his anymore.”

 

She can hear him gulp down a hard breath and his hands finally find her skin. They’re startlingly cold, nothing like his usual feverish warmth, and she jumps at his touch.

 

“That’s what’s happening to me,” he sniffles. “It has to be.”

 

“Fitz, you can’t honestly believe in something called _soul death.”_

“It’s the only bloody explanation,” he growls. “I…I made a mistake.”

 

Her heart skips a beat and she struggles to hold onto her control. “What did you do?”

 

“I’ve been…the reason I’ve been…I’ve been visiting with Ward.”

 

“But why?” she finally manages to get out.

 

“I thought that I could get…I could get closure.”

 

“Your stutter,” she observes dully. “That’s why it’s gotten worse. Being around him again…it’s unraveling you, Fitz.”

 

He nods, pulling her against him desperately. She remains limp in his arms but allows him to hold her. She wants to question him, ask why he didn’t tell her, but there’s nothing that she can ask him that will give her the answers she wants.

 

“We’ll go see someone,” she tells him, instead. “We’ll try to figure this out.”

 

“We’re gonna fix this,” he mumbles as his hands grip her even tighter. “Together.”

 

She decides not to tell him that she has no idea how. When he finally falls asleep, she hardly recognizes his face anymore.

 

It’s terrifying.

 

***

 

The next day, they sit across from Melinda May in her office.

 

“Dr. Simmons, this is highly unorthodox. As your colleague, I’m not entirely comfortable advising you,” May tells her plainly.

 

“I understand that,” Jemma concedes. “But given that you’ve allowed Fitz to remain in contact with the cause of his trauma—“

 

May cuts her off with a sharp glance in Fitz’s direction. “I did no such thing.”

 

Fitz sinks deeper into his chair, looking like chastised child. “I just wanted to…wanted to make my own choice.”

 

May sighs, folding her hands neatly on her desk. “And this is what brought you in?”

 

“I wanted to talk to you about…soul death,” Jemma says slowly, the words feeling absolutely ridiculous leaving her mouth in the presence of her stoic co-worker. Instead of the dispassionate disgust she expects, May frowns and shuffles some papers.

 

“What about it?”

 

“I’m beginning to suspect that it’s happening to Fitz,” Jemma explains quietly. She feels his eyes burning on the side of her face but she refuses to look at him. “I’ve lost the ability to see three colors already.”

 

“And you, Fitz?”

 

“Green, and a few more.”

 

“Which was the first color that I lost,” Jemma jumps in, hoping that the information is somehow relevant to their situation. May breathes deeply.

“The first thing that you need to do,” May says directly to Fitz, “is immediately discontinue all contact with Ward.”

 

He nods fervently. “I did. I haven’t…I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”

 

May considers him carefully, searching for a lie. She finds none, and nods curtly. “Fine. We’ll increase our sessions to three days per week, and I’ll recommend you to a neurologist who specializes in this kind of trauma. All of the work that you did with Dr. Simmons, and then with me, has been practically undone by your continued exposure to the source of your traumas.”

 

Fitz clenches his eyes tight, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I’m not broken. He didn’t…he didn’t break me. I can handle seeing him.”

 

“Apparently, you can’t,” May tells him bluntly. “I understand your desire to prove yourself, or to somehow overcome this in a way that ends with you and Ward remaining friends, or at least you understanding him. But Fitz, that is not going to happen.”

 

Jemma looks at the floor, knowing that she’d have said a very similar thing in her professional capacity. Of course, she’s always been a little bit less forceful than May, but Jemma has always respected her for her ability to be that way.

 

Fitz stares at Jemma, desperation in his eyes. At least she can still recognize the color in them.

 

“I wanted to be the better man,” he tells her so softly she almost misses it. “I thought that I could _win_ somehow, by rising above him.”

 

Jemma licks her lips and looks away from him. “I know, Fitz, but that’s part of the problem. You’ve never realized that you already _were_ above him.”

 

He stares up toward the ceiling and Jemma gathers her jacket.

 

“I’m going to leave you to speak to May with some privacy,” Jemma tells him. “I’ll see you at home, okay?”

 

“Yeah, alright,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. Jemma resists the urge to roll her eyes and instead kisses his cheek. Her face blushes pink at her display of affection in front of May; she’s out the door before she even has a chance to see May’s reaction.

 

_[Green]_

_What happened to the soul that you used to be?_

A week after their meeting with May, things are still considerably strained between them. Sometimes he looks at her like he wants to say something, but then he clenches his jaw and returns to whatever it is he’s doing. She reaches for him often, withdrawing her hand before he can notice. When he does see her, he immediately latches onto her before she can slip away from him again.

 

Jemma can only hope that the tension and awkwardness will dissipate with time, which is why she’s so surprised when she wakes to find him, once again, absent.

 

She doesn’t flinch the way she once might have, even though she’s been slowly growing optimistic that they can get him (and their relationship) back to how it had been before she’d lost one of her colors. Instead, she sighs heavily and swings herself out of bed, heading for the kitchen to make herself a cuppa.

 

“Morning,” Fitz greets her with a nervous smile.

 

She stumbles back, rubbing at her tired eyes in confusion. “Fitz?”

 

“I’m making pancakes,” he tells her, flipping the food in front of him with a spatula. “We haven’t done this in a while.”

 

Jemma smiles wistfully, thinking of the many mornings (and afternoons, and nights, really) that they’ve sat together sharing pancakes. She shuffles behind him to flick the switch on the kettle, perching on the counter beside it and watching him work.

 

“What a lovely idea, Fitz.”

 

“Yeah, well…least I can do, really,” he mumbles. His shoulders hunch in a display of guilt and she briefly considers telling him, once again, that none of this is _really_ his fault.

 

But at the same time, it is.

 

He’d hidden something huge from her. Even if it hadn’t resulted in this, it still would have hurt. He was still lying and sneaking off and doing something he _knew_ she wouldn’t like (and with good reason, she thinks). So even if she doesn’t want to pretend like it doesn’t hurt, she still feels a tug in her gut, a burning ache to make him feel better.

 

“We’ll get it back, Fitz,” Jemma says softly. She hops off of the counter and moves to wrap her arms around his waist. He temporarily stiffens, out of practice with this kind of contact, but she soon feels the muscles in his abdomen relax against her arms.

 

“I know we will,” he murmurs, free hand moving to cover hers. “I love you. You do know that, don’t you?”

 

She presses her face into his back and nods. “I do.”

 

He clears his throat as he flips the last pancake onto the stack beside him. “Looks like we’re ready to go.”

 

Jemma extricates herself from him and takes a seat at the breakfast bar. She watches him line up the pancakes beside containers of fresh berries, butter, syrup, and, of course, whipped cream.

 

“What are your plans for the day?” he asks, piling pancakes onto his plate and smothering them in butter and syrup. Jemma pulls a face as she watches him.

 

“Nothing,” Jemma shrugs. “I had an appointment this morning but she cancelled yesterday afternoon.”

 

Fitz hides his smile as his leg bounces anxiously, rocking his stool slightly. “Well I have something I’d like to show you this afternoon. If that’s alright.”

 

“Fitz, you don’t have to be so scared of me,” Jemma sighs in exasperation. “Of course it’s alright. We live together!”

 

“Yeah, well, I just didn’t want to assume…with things being what they are…”

 

She considers his profile carefully, watching the way that a flush races up the side of his neck. “Fitz, we’re never going to move past this unless we start actively trying.”

 

His face crinkles. “You shrinks love to use the word ‘actively’, y’know that?”

 

She shrugs with a little smirk. “Tools of the trade, I suppose. So where are we going?”

 

“It’s a surprise,” he says, slightly more confident than before. She’s never been a huge fan of surprises. She prefers to be prepared for every variable and situation, which requires a certain amount of prior knowledge. But for this, for them, she’ll make an exception.

 

“I’m intrigued,” she tells him, popping a strawberry into her mouth. She watches his eyes track her movements intently and shivers under his gaze. “Shall we leave after breakfast?”

 

He nods wordlessly, taking a large gulp of tea and averting his eyes. She smirks. Perhaps they really are getting somewhere.

 

***

 

She watches his trembling hands fumble with the keys to the door in front of them. Jemma looks up and down the street in confusion, having absolutely no idea what they’re doing here or what the surprise might be. He’s taken her to a nondescript white building, with no discernable markings or signs. He finally gets the key into the lock, pushing it open with a satisfying click.

 

The building is completely dark, and he slides his hand against the wall searching for a switch. He finds one, but doesn’t hit it instantly.

 

“I know that I’ve really hurt you,” he says, voice low. “And I know we’re supposed to be actively trying to move past all of this, but I just wanted to show you what you mean to me. Since the day I met you, you’ve been so important to me. I’m not always…I’m not the best at telling you that, especially lately. So please, let me show you.”

 

The light flicks on and Jemma gasps.

 

It’s an art gallery, full of paintings and drawings of various shades. A few of them have patches of grey, which she supposes are either _actually_ grey or one of her missing colors. The first one, a large watercolor of herself at what she thinks is their first appointment, takes her breath away. She holds out a sheet of paper toward the viewer, face open and kind. The expression in her eyes is so clear that it squeezes at her heart. Even back then, she supposes, she must have known that he was it; her soulmate, the blue in an otherwise colorless existence.

 

Next is a painting of her on the beach, sun setting behind her in pinks and blues. She looks awestruck but happy and utterly in love.

 

It goes on like this, through their timeline. It’s when she reaches the painting of their first Christmas, her face illuminated by the colored lights of a Christmas tree in his mother’s living room in Scotland, that she realizes it.

 

“Fitz?” she gasps, fingers reaching up to touch the textured green paint of the tree.

 

“Is everything…are you okay?” he asks nervously, walking briskly to her side.

 

She nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, it’s just—it’s green. I can see it.”

 

He leans against the wall, a relieved breath hissing out of his nose. His eyes wander to the painting and he smiles lightly.

 

“I can see it too.”

 

Her eyebrows raise toward her hairline. “What colors have you lost? You never said.”

 

“Green, orange, purple, and red,” he tells her quietly. “Well, I suppose just those last three now.”

 

Jemma steps back, offering her hand out to him and squeezing his when he takes it. “This is beautiful, Fitz. Thank you.”

 

His arms snake around her, tucking his face into her hair as he inhales deeply. “I know it doesn’t seem like it but I missed you. I missed…us.”

 

“I did too,” she tells him softly, one hand coming up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck.

 

They stand in the middle of the gallery simply holding one another, surrounded by the colorful timeline of their life together.

_[Orange]_

They’re at dinner, a candlelit affair at the Italian place where they had their first date, when he looks up at her excitedly.

 

“Jemma!” he exclaims, a wide smile on his face. “Look!”

 

He points at the candle in front of them, finger darting through the flame in his delight. Jemma clucks her tongue and grabs his hand to prevent him from doing it again.

 

“Fitz!” she chastises. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

 

“But look,” he implores once again, eyes drifting back to the little flame. Then he swallows and looks between her eyes and the candle repeatedly. “You can see it right?”

 

“Oh!” Jemma chirps, finally giving the flame her full attention. “It’s orange!”

 

“It seems like we’re getting them back at the same time,” he tells her, looking quite pleased about it. “That’s got to be a good sign, right?”

 

“Definitely,” she smiles encouragingly. “I wonder, though, about red for you. I never lost that one.”

 

His smile falters slightly but he manages to keep it in place. “Yeah well, it was my almost-soul death that caused this whole thing. So I guess I can live without red.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll come back,” she assures him. “Enough of that. You were telling me earlier about that client that came into the studio?”

 

Fitz shakes himself out of his funk and rolls his eyes at the memory of this particular client. “Phil tried to explain, over and over, that we’re not allowed to just _copy_ someone else’s symbol. He refused to accept it.”

 

“What did he want?”

 

Fitz pins her with an unenthused stare. “Only the most recognizable symbol in the world.”

 

Jemma cocks her head to the side in thought. “Was it…a cross? Something religious?”

 

Fitz laughs. “No, I wish. We’d actually be allowed to use that. It was fucking Mickey Mouse.”

 

Jemma giggles, shaking her head. She doesn’t let go of his hand and he makes no move to separate from her for the remainder of their meal.

 

Colors and soul death don’t come up again.

 

_[Purple]:_

“I think you’re making excellent progress,” Jemma tells her latest client, an eccentric young woman by the name of Raina. “I’ll see you next week.”

 

Raina smiles and stands. “Thank you, Dr. Simmons.”

 

She leaves in a blur of flower print (and Jemma makes a note to ask her about the significance of florals at their next session). She takes a seat at her desk, looking over her schedule one more time and flipping through her notes from her sessions over the course of her day.

 

She checks her schedule for the next day; just a few appointments, with Hannah Hutchins and Natasha Romanoff. Natasha is a particularly difficult patient; she has little interest in participating in her court-ordered therapy.

 

Jemma pulls up her file to re-read her notes from her previous sessions with these particular patients. Hannah’s hallucinations of a former co-worker killed in an accident have improved. Natasha’s compulsive lying, however, has not. Checking her watch, she sees that she still has another hour or so until she would ordinarily head home. She heads for her bookshelf, searching the tomes for a familiar volume that has a particularly good chapter on pathological lying.

 

Her bookshelf is impeccably organized (like most things in her life) and she thumbs through the spines of her books lazily, eyes trailing the titles.

 

That’s when she notices.

 

Her copy of Mindfulness and Anxiety: Exercises is a lavender paperback. She immediately darts for her desk, yanking open the top drawer as tears fill her eyes.

 

This is the last color. It’s the last piece.

 

She unlocks the screen and presses the button for phone calls, but she is promptly cut off by an incoming call. She smiles when she sees Fitz’s name on the screen.

 

“Hello,” she answers. “How are you?”

 

“Purple?” he blurts out, panting slightly. She giggles.

 

“Mhm. I was just about to call you.”

 

He laughs, elated, and she grins into the phone. “Oh thank God. Jemma, we did it. We really did it.”

 

“You did it,” she reminds him. “You did the work, not me.”

 

“Yeah well I broke it to begin with, didn’t I?” he retorts.

 

“Semantics,” she teases. “So all we’ve got left is red.”

 

The other side of the line goes silent. “The doctor said there’s a good chance I won’t get red back. You didn’t lose it, and we’ve gotten them all back at the same time, so…”

 

“Tosh,” Jemma dismisses. “I refuse to accept that. And you should too. Your doctor also said that it would take nearly a year before we had them back and it’s only been a matter of weeks, Fitz!”

 

“You’re right. We’re pretty good at this.”

 

Jemma smirks. “Like Skye always says. Psychically linked, right?”

 

He laughs warmly. “Alright, I’ve got to get back to work. See you in a bit?”

 

“Mhm. See you around six,” she confirms, walking back to her bookshelf and finding the book she’d been searching for to begin with. “Love you.”

 

“Love you too,” he says, and she hangs up the phone. She does a bit of research, but she’s read this particular chapter so many times that it doesn’t really provide her with any new insight into her patient’s difficult case. She abandons it on her desk and lets her thoughts stray to her own case.

 

Fitz has hardly spoken to her about the process he’s been going through, with May and with his new neurologist. He’d said that he wanted to keep their relationship away from it, because discussing those things with her made him feel like her patient all over again. She supposes that power dynamic sometimes makes it way into their personal relationship, and she’d hate to push him and make him feel uncomfortable.

 

At the same time, he’s her boyfriend. Her soulmate and her partner. She wants him to share everything with her, as Jemma, not as Dr. Simmons.

 

So she sits back in her chair and she formulates a plan.

 

***

 

She doesn’t get her moment until two nights later. It’s finally the weekend, and neither of them are busy with work and preparations for various projects or patients. They’re significantly less exhausted on a Saturday night than any other night of the week, and she figures this is her perfect time to put her plan in place.

 

She’s still a bit nervous about it, if she’s honest with herself, but she pushes it back and texts Skye.

 

_[Jemma]: I need you to get Fitz out of the apartment for an hour or so tonight. Just have him home by 9._

_[Skye]: Is he being a dick again? Cause I made it very clear that I would do some pretty horrible things to him. Trip even offered to help._

_[Jemma]: No, no, he’s doing quite well. I’m just planning a surprise and I can’t do it while he’s home._

_[Skye]: The cons of cohabitation. Got it. Is this a…dirty surprise, Dr. Simmons? ;)_

_[Jemma]: Just…get him out, please._

_[Skye]: On it._

Not five minutes later, Fitz looks up from his magazine and frowns at his phone. “Hey, Jemma, I think I need to step out for a bit tonight.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah, something’s up with Skye. She said she needs to talk to me,” he says worriedly. “Has she said anything to you?”

 

Jemma purses her lips and turns her head slightly away from him. She’s a horrible liar and she’s not about to ruin her whole plan with one bad lie. “Nope, she hasn’t said anything. You should go, make sure she’s alright.”

 

He leans over on the couch to kiss her softly. “You’re the best.”

 

“Hush,” she smiles. “Go on, then.”

 

He stands and changes into a warmer top, throwing on his jacket and heading out to meet their friend. Jemma waits until she’s sure he’s not coming back for any forgotten items before she dashes into their room, carding through her clothing until she finds the red dress she’s looking for. She lays it out on the bed and then digs into the back of the closet for the shopping bag she hid yesterday.

 

Pulling it out, she lets out a nervous breath and slowly unfurls the tissue paper to reveal the rather scandalous lingerie set she’d purchased on her lunch break with Bobbi. It’s red and black, a bra that leaves little to the imagination and a little lace skirt that clips onto stockings with two thin garters.

 

“He loves you,” she reminds herself firmly. Since his recurrent drama, they’d been working on being more affectionate once again, but had yet to really get back to their previous level of intimacy.

 

This is mostly an attempt to help Fitz with the last bit of his battle over his demons.

 

Jemma also really, really needs to get laid. She puts it on before she can doubt herself, stumbling and falling as she attempts to attach the garters to the stockings.

 

“How does anyone do this without help?” she grumbles. She finds herself getting rather sweaty in the process and whines, checking the time. She’s spent entirely too much time putting together this ridiculous contraption of an outfit, but one look in the mirror tells her that it will (hopefully) be worth the gymnastics it took to get it on.

 

She slips on the red dress, a floating number that lands far enough down her leg to conceal the garters. She double-checks and makes sure that none of her lingerie is exposed in the dress. Pleased with the result, she busies herself with redoing some of her makeup and then sets about setting up the living room. Pushed behind a stack of Chinese takeout containers, she finds the paper box full of rose petals that she’d placed in there. She scatters them around the living room, appreciating the contrast of the dark red petals against their lightly colored living room.

 

Next she sets up two wine glasses and a nice bottle of cabernet on the coffee table. She fiddles with their blue tooth speakers and presses play on a particularly nice playlist she and Fitz had made together, curled up on their couch after an exhausting party at Daisy and Trip’s flat.

 

She spends quite a few minutes pacing and doesn’t even notice when the key turns in the lock. She hears his footsteps just in time and whirls around to face him. He stands in the doorway, looking rather gobsmacked as his keys hit the floor.

 

“Jemma?”

 

“Hi, Fitz.”

 

“You look…”

 

His sentence trails off but she takes that as a good sign. He’s never been particularly good at compliments, and the flush of his cheeks tells her what she needs to know.

 

“I may or may not have arranged Skye’s problems,” Jemma grimaces. Fitz chuckles and moves toward her, brushing her hair out of her face.

 

“I figured that one out,” he smiles. “So what’s all this for, hm?”

 

“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” she says, a bit nervously. He raises his eyebrows, catching her tentative tone. “Well, and I thought…I thought we could talk.”

 

He exhales sharply. “Are you…are we…this is a lot of trouble to go through for a break up?”

 

She barks out a laugh and shakes her head wildly. “No, no! Not that. I just…I think that we can get your red back.”

 

He looks around the room, following her hand gestures, and realizes that most everything in the room appears grey to him, including her dress.

 

“I see.”

 

“And I know you’re not always comfortable with talking to me about this stuff, since I was your doctor and all,” she rushes, “but I also think that it could be really good for you. Maybe it’s the last bit that you need to get it all back.”

 

He considers her carefully. “You haven’t been my therapist in a long time.”

 

“I haven’t,” she agrees. “But I have been your girlfriend for a long time. More than that, we’re soulmates, Fitz. I want you to be able to tell me what’s bothering you.”

 

“Alright. Yeah. We can…let’s talk.”

 

She tries to keep the skip out of her step as she opens the wine and pours them each a liberal glass. She curls up beside him on the couch and lets him take his time in beginning.  


“It started because I was finally happy,” he tells her. “We had just moved in together and I never thought…you know what I thought. I never thought I could have this, with anyone, after what Ward did.”

 

“So what made you seek him out?” she asks, focusing intently on keeping her tone affectionate and not clinical.

 

“I wanted to show him,” Fitz laughs bitterly. “I got to have this and he didn’t. He’s in jail again and he’s never going to get to have this with anyone. But me, I get to have it.”

 

Jemma nearly chokes on the irony of the fact that he almost lost all of it for this very reason. That they both almost did. Instead, she urges him to continue with a squeeze of his leg.

 

“So I started visiting him, and I realized it was also that I missed him. I don’t…he was my friend for so long. I thought maybe I could still…that there was still good in him. That he cared about me.”

 

“I’m sure he did, at some point, Fitz,” Jemma attempts to comfort. He shakes his head sharply.

 

“No, he didn’t. He never did. He almost destroyed my life once and I almost let him destroy it again. I almost let him take away the _one_ thing I can’t live without.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

He looks at her as though she’s grown a second head. “You. Always you, Jemma.”

 

She sets her wine glass down and surges forward to kiss him, pinning him against one arm of the couch. He fumbles with his own glass, narrowly avoiding a major spill on the rug. He pulls back long enough to whisper against her lips.

 

“Thank you for staying beside me, the whole damn time.”

 

Then he lunges for her, knocking her backward with one hand supporting her head as he holds himself up over her. Her hands wind around his neck and she kisses him with abandon. She’d forgotten the fire he could light in her and it burns through her. Her legs slide up around his waist and she makes quick work on the buttons of his flannel.

 

When she leans up to help him get rid of it, she catches a glimpse of the hem of her dress and she sits back.

 

“Fitz?” she asks hopefully. His eyes are focused entirely on the black garter belts making a perfect line down the middle of her thighs.

 

“Huh?” he asks dumbly.

 

“Um, do you see anything new?”

 

His fingers hook underneath the straps and he nods with a thick swallow. She giggles and shakes her head.

 

“No, not those!”

 

He tilts his head, looking at her face before his eyes widen. “Oh! Holy hell, Jemma! Red!”

 

She giggles and nods toward the petals and the wine. “Mhm. It appears my plan worked.”

 

“You little minx,” he grins, swooping in to nip at her bottom lip. She gasps lightly and he lifts her off of the couch, stumbling slightly as he tries to walk them to the bedroom. “Red is great and all but for now I’m far more interested in black.”

 

She shrieks and he lays her down on the bed with a hearty bounce.

 

Maybe having a soulmate doesn’t mean everything will be easy all the time, she thinks as they lay together in the afterglow. His fingers play with the tips of her hair as he murmurs to her and she watches his every expression, every movement of his face and every shade of his eyes.

 

Maybe having a soulmate is just finding someone you never want to be without, and fighting like hell to keep them by your side.


End file.
